The latest art work from Brian Riley, aka "The Marshmallow Man," features a new character, a stick figure he named Baby StumpyâÄîa cut-down tree abandoned and discarded as kindling.
Photo: Contributed Photo

The latest art work from Brian Riley, aka "The Marshmallow Man,"...

The latest art work from Brian Riley, aka "The Marshmallow Man," features a new character, a stick figure he named Baby StumpyâÄîa cut-down tree abandoned and discarded as kindling.
Photo: Contributed Photo

But smile is not a thing Brian Riley does these days when talking about his Marshmallow Man.

The graffiti tag of a plump and grinning marshmallow led to his arrest, which got Riley fired from his job. That left him unable to pay his rent and forced his eviction from a studio apartment.

"Reality melted when I was forced to move out of my house," he said recently in an overt reference to Salvador Dali's strange and surreal depictions of a warped world -- and to the next phase of Riley's own life.

His exit from his home accelerated a downward spiral of alcoholism, homelessness and thoughts of death, he said.

"It's ironic that such a gentle smiling face became a figure of torment," said Riley, an average-sized man with above average nervous shakes. "A lot of people stayed away and dropped me for dead."

He soon found himself walking the city's streets, memorizing soup kitchen serving times and joining a clan of other homeless citizens.

"You appreciate what an amazing job the soup kitchen volunteers do every day," he said. But when the sun went down "nighttime became an adventure."

Riley was robbed, beaten and taught to trust no one.

Now the 44-year-old artist hopes to put all that behind. He spent 10 rough days in a Bridgeport detox center.

"I ended up being a big embarrassment to myself ... Breathalyzers and urine samples, that's how I need to live for a while."

His successful completion of detox got him transferred to the Grant Street Partnership, a New Haven substance abuse residential and outpatient treatment program. There, he's applied for Accelerated Rehabilitation that he hopes will remove the two paint-related criminal mischief charges from his record.

"It looks at things with a child's innocence and comments," Riley said.

Outlaw artist

In his prior life Riley looked at society and tried to make insightful comments; that was his modus while directing new plays for the Bridgeport Theater Company.

"They hired me to be edgy," he said.

So he produced shows like After Bedtime Stories -- a group of adult fairy tales -- and musicals called "Suburban Decay" and "Teenaging Disgracefully"

But that job ended days after his Feb. 20, 2014, arrest for spray painting the smiling Marshmallow around downtown.

A second third-degree criminal mischief arrest occurred April 4, 2014. That day police found an inebriated Riley holding a can of white paint near a pool of that same color at the intersection of John and Main Streets.

Without a job, Riley couldn't afford the rent on his Read's Artspace apartment. By early June he was evicted and homeless.

He stuffed what fit into a backpack and began walking the streets.

"Life on the street is a whole new ball game with a whole different set of rules," Riley said. "There's a lot of inebriation, lot of stealing, lot of violence. You learn it's hard to trust anybody."

Gone quickly was his computer tablet, a tape recorder and a silver pocket watch given to him by his son.

He hooked up with a street-wise clan -- a tightly knit group of other more experienced homeless citizens.

Others were Africa -- "a little guy with an accent who taught me to watch my back," and Skully, whose skin was covered with tattoos of skulls and who became "a good friend," Riley said.

Then there was Gina, "a terrific singer" adept at panhandling.

"They are people who chose this way of life," Riley said. "It was very tribal -- like living `Lord of the Flies'."

He said they knew where to panhandle, pawn stolen items, bum cigarettes and avoid cops.

Days began around 7 a.m. with a wash-up inside the city's railroad station. That would be followed by breakfast at a soup kitchen, downtime at the railroad station's pier and treks to another soup kitchen for lunch.

"You learn what was on the menu and what times they served," he said. "I was blown away by the kindness of the volunteers at the soup kitchens."

A visit to the United Congregational Church on Park Avenue, where he once directed "Dracula" and "A Christmas Carol" was especially moving. While going through the serving lines, his eyes caught those of the Rev. Sara Smith, the church's senior minister.

"I told her I was going through some tough times," he recalled. "She was pleasant, absolutely understanding and not judgmental. She talked to me and made me feel good."

"That meant a lot," he said with a cringe, his voice choking up.

But there were also parties in the park, "a lot of inebriations," and discussions at the piers where conversations sounded like soap operas.

"People would talk about how many kids they had, what they were addicted to ... One day, two people would be involved in a full-fledged fist-fight and a day or two later they'd be hanging out again."

Riley admits he was drunk much of the time, reaching for alcohol and vodka soon after waking.

"No time was I sleeping in the gutter," he said. "But I was close."

Oblivion and back

He knew he needed help.

He was just waiting for a bed to open at a detox center. Once one was available, he grabbed his belongings and went.

"I remember vaguely those 10 days," he said. "To offset my withdrawal from alcohol they put me on Librium....Some days were total oblivion."

He does recall building a serenity rock garden and decorating the stones with encouraging words and peaceful visions.

"They only had brown and pink paint so I made colors using salt, pepper and coffee grinds," he said.

When 10 days passed, he was moved to Grant Street Partnership in New Haven and a residential treatment program. Mornings began with chores, followed by meditation, then breakfast and three-hours of classes. Then came lunch and TV time.

"I'm in there with a lot of convicted felons," Riley said. "They bring a lot of jailhouse mentality."

Just like in prison, cigarettes are traded for favors. Riley's gotten as little as two and as many as a pack for painting portraits or drawing art for tattoos.

"They love watching Cops, CSI and Dog the Bounty Hunter," he said. "I just sit and soak it in. If it were up to me I'd be watching Cartoon Network."

His 50 days of sobriety have won him freedoms.

Now he's allowed to leave after breakfast with a brown bag lunch of a sandwich, water, chips and a cookie.

Every day he walks a mile and a half to Alcohol Anonymous meetings at downtown churches, searches for work and reads graphic novels at the New Haven Library while contemplating writing and illustrating his own book.

And on sunny days, he can be found on the New Haven Green sketching and thinking about the future.

"I've lost everything except my life," he said. "I don't want to lose that. Thank God I have art which has helped get me through everything."